


My Essay Of me

by Scarlet_Angel_13



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, I'm not proud if it, Triggers, but i need to do this for me, its not pretty, my story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Angel_13/pseuds/Scarlet_Angel_13
Summary: I guess this is odd. But I need to write this all down. I dont want to be felt sorry for or pitied, I just want to be able to vent and tell people what my life has been like. Who knows, maybe this will help me move on and grow as a person. Maybe.





	1. The Beginning I Guess

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to judge me for my decisions I wont blame you.  
> I know I'm not perfect and I font pretend to be. Just know that I mean what I write here. This is my thoughts and my life.

Growing up I learned quickly that life isn’t fair. Life doesn’t care about your hard ships and your struggles because everyone has their own Achilles heel. And it can change as life progresses. As a child life was as good as it could be, at least from what I can remember. My parents provided all they could for my sisters and I. My parents were still young when we were born. My mum was fifteen when she had my older sister. Apparently, Tank girl is a very boring movie. My gran on my mum’s side wasn’t in the picture then, not for a good few years after my sister was born. There are two years between my older sister and me, and a year between me and my younger sister. 

I don’t know what happened to us really. We were once the three musketeers, the little monsters who got into all sort of mischief together. Breaking into the kitchen for midnight snacks, painting each other with white gloss paint once because it didn’t snow, and our mum had wanted to build snowmen. Imagine her shock and horror when she and dad go up one morning to see their three little girls covered in paint and proclaiming themselves snowmen. Mum was furious and having glass paint scrubbed off you isn’t any fun. We were as thick as thieves then. Now not so much. My older sister is now a brother, and my younger one is a spoiled brat who listens to no one even if they are right.

I don’t mind that my older sibling is now a brother, none of us do, but he drives me crazy. He left for university filled with hope and a spark of life, now he’s empty and uncaring. I don’t know what happened in those two years he was away, but I don’t like it. Those two years were… well they were some of the most difficult I have ever faced. Out of all of my siblings my oldest one was always there for me. Protected me in high school until I grew a back bone and could stand up for myself. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t grow one until my fifth year of high school. If I do decide to post this, I may post some of the pages I wrote in a diary I’ve kept for the past three years that talk about him being away. But make no mistake I don’t look for pity with this essay. I feel like I need to get this off my chest and what better way than to do this anonymously under my favoured pen name on the site I have the least stories on. Judge all you like but this is for me and not for you.

Isn’t it odd? How much we change as we grow older. I will be twenty years old this year and in my almost twenty years of life my opinions and views on the world have changed dramatically. As a child I believed anything was possible, that I could be anything I wanted to be even if I came from a rough area. I’m not ashamed to admit that I grew up below the poverty line. Hand me downs were expected and being the middle child who seems to never gain any weight as I got older, I got both hand me downs and hand me ups. I got clothes from my mother, brother, sister and even my cousin one time. I should tell you now that middle child syndrome is a thing. It’s a bitterness that you will find in even the happiest of middle children. But it gives you a perspective that none of your siblings will have.

I don’t live with my parents now, I have my own flat, for now. I visit when I can, usually once a month, and on my last visit in February my mum told me something that made me furious. Before I tell you what it was you need to know something. My mum had Hailstorm tickets and my older brother, little sister and I wanted the second one. She had us almost compete for it telling us the ticket would go to “Who ever pisses me off the least.” Harsh yes but that’s my mother. And in all fairness the three of us are all grown up. Anyways, I won the ticket. Do you want to know why? Because I help her the most. My mum had both of my brothers at home, one being twenty-one currently and the other just turned eleven. My mum had a bad back. The top half is riddled with arthritis, the bottom half is degrading. Now imagine my shock and horror coming home for reading week to be told I am the most helpful of her four children, because I did the dishes and tidied up the kitchen during the day and helped out with dinner once of twice. Imagine how pissed off I was at my older brother who lives there and doesn’t help.

Perhaps I would be the same if I wasn’t trying to repent. I am ashamed to admit that I was horrible to my mum as a teenager. I yelled at her, belittled her, stole from her and blamed her. And I’m not proud of that. It was only once I moved out at age eighteen that I realised how much of a bitch I had been. So, everything I do is to try and make up for my mistakes, and I don’t think I will ever be able to stop the feeling of guilt that eats at me every time I think of what I put her through. But despite all of this, my mum still loves me. She loves me because she gave me everything she could, and I took it and I am making something out of myself that I hope she can be proud of one day. In honesty I am the first person in my family (that I know of) that has applied for and gotten into University at the age of eighteen, straight out of high school. My cousin is in this boat with me too. We attend the dame university, we share a flat, and we were born two days apart. Odd but true. 

Now I’ve told you a little about my brother, given you a glimpse of how awful I am, and a told you a little about my mum. I think my little sister is next.

My little sister is special. Plain and simple. She had no arms, her bones are… well fucked really, her organs are too big for her body, she had dwarfism, is allergic to all of life’s joys and has the personality of a spoiled little bitch. Its harsh but that’s how I grew up feeling about her. I was her young carer and I hated it. I suppose most people wouldn’t complain about it. She needed the help and I was there. But I could have done without her treating me like a slave. Trust me I don’t exaggerate. My little sister is entitled as far as I’m concerned. She was and still is a class A bitch. She’s immature, pompous and positively pathetic. I don’t say this because she’s disables, don’t mistake me. She can do everything you or I can. She’s just vain. Vain, with dreams of grandeur on a Broadway stage. Its harsh to say this but if I’m not harsh with her then no one will be. Everyone else has given up long ago. My sister can sing, that I won’t deny but she can’t act. Shes a hypochondriac and a child. Perhaps it’s because I view her differently from the rest of the world, I’ve seen her evil and I don’t take her ‘oh woe is me’ attitude at face value. Think me awful for saying so but even now, after mellowing out and realising how bad I once was, I can still see that evil in her. I see her manipulations and her lies and I call her out on them. 

I biased of course. I’m an academic and shes an actor. I chose university, barely scraping the grades to get into my school, and she waltzed out of her sixth-year exams with grades that could take her where ever she wanted to go, and she chose drama school. Its ironic. But no matter what I say, I still love her. We were brought up with family first. You love your family no matter what because that’s who will always be there for you. I know a lot of people can’t go by that. So many people have shitty parents who don’t understand them or care. People who would kick their children out or ostracise them for being different. And in that I am truly lucky. I am Bi, my brother is trans and pansexual, and the icing on the cake is that my grandpa is also bi. My parents are some of the most open-minded people you might meet. But they aren’t without their biases. Neds, junkies and alcoholics are placed under the category of undesirables, mostly because my parents know first hand what people like that are capable of. 

I mentioned my gran earlier. Shes dead now. Nearly seven years now. I loved her, but I’ve learned that she wasn’t the person I thought she was. My gran was an awful person. She kicked my mum out at twelve, wanted nothing to do with her or my grandpa, or us. My gran stayed away until shortly after 2003, when my youngest sister Jenifer was still born. Hers is the only name I will use. My gran didn’t care about us until I was maybe five or six. My gran, despite her faults and her mistakes loved us. She visited often and would bring back presents from her trips to Greece. She taught me to knit. Listened to my problems and talked sense into me. Made sure I respected my mum. How ironic that she helped me keep on good terms with my mum when she never even tried with her own daughter. My gran will never be perfect. But as a child she was important to me. She still is. The thought of her still brings tears to my eyes because I still miss her. I was one of the few who was given the chance to say good bye. I was in third year at the time. It was Halloween and I had taken my brother trick or treating. He was a smurf and I was a witch. We went to see her in the hospital in our costumes. She was her same snarky self-asking my dad to fix her tv asking how we were, say she was fine, feeling a lot better, saying she wanted to go out for a cigarette. She was acting more like her than she had in the two or three years before then. She was sick for a long time, and I had hope that she was going to be alright. That I would see her again after saying goodbye that night. Saying I would see her again in a few days with everyone else. I still remember kissing her goodbye like we always did. She died the next day. We came in from school and my dad’s aunt was there to watch us because mum and dad had to go to the hospital. I spent hours hoping, praying and trying to reassure myself that everything would be okay, but I wasn’t stupid. Mum came home late and sat us down and I knew what she was going to tell us. I tried to prepare myself for it because I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want gran to be gone. But she was. I cried a lot after she died, hell I will admit I’m crying just writing about it. I don’t think it will ever stop hurting that I’m the only one who got to say goodbye out of my siblings that will remember it. My brother was six, I was thirteen. I was one of the last of us to see her alive. More like herself than I had seen her in years. its hard to write this all down because until now I never realised how guilt I felt about it. My older brother and my sister never got that chance to say goodbye, to see her more like herself than ever but this is where I need to stop talking about her. I can’t write anymore because if I keep writing about it I think I might breakdown and never start again. There is so much more I want to say but I can’t because I think it might break me.

I’ll leave this hear for now. I need to stop for a little while. I’ll write more eventually but for now this is the end of my essay about my life. 

As I already said I don’t want pity, or anything like that. I just want to tell my story. No matter how convoluted and twisted it all may become. Fiction is easy to keep on the straight and narrow path when you write it. Telling your own story is more tricky. Some things seem more important and things intertwine until you don’t know which way is and which was is down. But I’ll try to keep this as easy to follow as I can.


	2. A Revelation on my mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are easily triggered please dont read this.

I’ve learned a lot since I posted the start of this piece. In the beginning I told you how I felt like I needed to repent for how I treated my mother as a teen. Turns out I wasn’t the bad daughter in this story. I just have a bad mother. 

Its cruel to say, but looking back now, thinking about everything my mother did, or failed to do, I don’t even feel sorry or guilty for calling her that. 

I’d like to start as far back as I can remember. I was maybe five or six at the time and I was sick. Really sick. I had a fever that any other parent would worry about, I had white and yellow spots all over me, and I was all round unwell. Now, most people would take this obviously sick child to the doctors, right? Well not my mother. My mother was convinced that it was just the cold, and when it passed and she finally took me to the doctors, you can probably guess that it wasn’t something so simple. At such a tender age I had suffered through a mild case of Scarlet Fever. For the more curious readers who look up random things or who may have suffered from this yourself, you will know that this is not a disease to take lightly. This disease is a killer. It has taken lives, many lives in the past, and I was untreated and undiagnosed until the worst of it had passed. This is a disease that stays with you through your whole life. The only benefit is that you can’t catch it twice. Now my mum was still young, she had two other children to take care of, I’ve let it slide for years, until my little brother caught it at a tender age as well. The first sign of the disease in her precious son and he was at the hospital, on medication. Now ‘she recognised the symptoms from when you were little’ I hear you say. Sure, she might have, except my brother’s case was a lot less aggressive than what I suffered through. So, my mother isn’t winning any mother points for that. But it doesn’t end there. 

At six or seven I suffered a stomach hernia, and to my mother’s credit it was dealt with, with the utmost hast. My intestines blocked the hole in my belly button and prevented me from bleeding out. Now I have an awkward scar and a sheet of mesh in my belly button to reinforce it. 

The next incident I can remember that loses her parent points was about two or three years after my younger brother was born. He had run out of the house while my gran was in and my mum sent me to catch him. To all the observant readers out there you may have realised something odd here. Everyone else was in, my mother didn’t particularly like my gran, and she wasn’t ill at this point. But not the point here. I was sent to catch him and going down the three or so steps leading to the back garden I went over on my ankle. I screamed and called my brother over. He understood by then that when someone was hurt the fun was over. I got him inside and told my mum what happened to my ankle. She didn’t particularly care. Walk it off, you just twisted it. Her own words. She ignored the swelling, she ignored the fact that I seriously struggled to walk on it. Fast forward to the next morning, I was unable to put any pressure on my ankle without being in extreme agony. Still, I was forced into my uniform and forced to walk on my own to the car, and then from the car in the doctor’s car park, up a hill and to A&E, all the while my mum complaining that I was over exaggerating. I had x-rays done and the doctors took a look. Safe to say it wasn’t a sprain. Somehow, I had managed to get a hairline fracture on the ball joint of my ankle. In the centre of the ball joint. How I managed that? I have no idea. Did my mum care? Not particularly. They put a cast on me (Making a dent in the sole of the first cast on accident) and gave me crutches before I was taken straight to school, even though I was told to rest. Now a few days later my foot is throbbing, and they redo the cast, and everything is pretty alright after that. I even got out of P.E for a few weeks (Which was a god sent because I was one missed class away from a getting lines to write) But my mum never really cared that I fractured my ankle. I’m still made run around after my siblings because as second oldest its part of my job. Still surely most parents would take their child to A&E if they had a swollen ankle and were complaining of awful pain from said ankle.   
Don’t worry though, I have lot more to say on this woman and I’m not even out of childhood yet. 

As a child I was a picky eater. Sometimes food would be put down to me and I would refuse to eat it. My mum would refuse to make me something else because I was a big girl and I should eat what everyone else is eating. “Eat whats given to you or starve. Your choice.” That was a favourite line. And me, being a young impressionable child took it to heart. I didn’t want stew, I wasn’t going to eat it. I went to my room and stayed there. I didn’t want coco pops for breakfast, bitch I would go without. And my mum was touch on it. There were times when she would put the same thing down to me the next meal and tell me to eat it or starve. You can guess what I did. I’ll admit it was dumb but I was stubborn and quite a few time I genuinely got ill because I wasn’t eating. I would throw up and the food would be chucked. I was given something light and told I was stupid for being so stubborn. But can you blame me? I was a kid. I barely understood that food was something I needed to survive. And what parents lets their kids stave themselves to that point that many times. I can remember at lest seven or eight times that I made myself sick this way. No one ever sat me down and talked to me about it, my mum never changed her strategy.

Eventually I stopped doing it as often. I just left the table at dinner and I made my own breakfast, so I wasn’t starving because I wasn’t given something new to eat. 

I will say I have an aversion to loud noises and arguing. I don’t like it, it puts me on edge and just generally upsets me, so as I got older, more and more I would leave a meal because I wasn’t comfortable at the table. I would hide in my room or the bathroom until everyone else was done and then go eat. Other times my sister would start on me, criticise me because of how I was, and I would run and hide and cry, before being dragged back down to eat, even though my favourite excuse was spewing over and over from my mouth. “I’m not hungry, I don’t want it. Go away I’ll eat something later.” The list went on. But never once did my mum notice and put a stop to any of it. 

Now, this leads away from the borderline neglect of childhood, and leads into the obvious detachment of teen-hood. I’ve had bad anxiety since I was maybe nine or ten. It wasn’t really something my mum ever picked up on until I was actually diagnosed less than a year ago and told her. But as you can probably guess, this young kid with bad general anxiety didn’t have any friends. The little voice in my head always liked to remind me that no one cared, that no one actually liked me, that they just tolerated me and were just too polite to say so. So, going into high school like this I was the odd, quiet bookish kid who was smaller than most of her class and didn’t really talk to anyone. I made friends of course… with other outcasts. By there was one boy in my class who took and almost instant disliking to me. For now, we’ll just call him C. So, C really didn’t like me. I didn’t like him either but that was because he bullied me and made my first two years of high school hell. It got so bad that when I was in my second year I begged my mum several times to let me transfer to a different school. To my friend T’s school, or even my cousins school with was in a completely different school district. Now, my dad (Who I haven’t really spoken about but we’ll get to him later) Actually spoke to my uncle about me possibly moving school. He took me seriously because no kid pleads and begs with tears streaming down their face, several times a week, for you to move them schools, without having a good reason. But my mother? She didn’t fucking care at all. It’ll be fine, he’s just a boy, its just words, you aren’t transferring to that school. You can go to St Luke’s. I didn’t even care I just wanted out. But was I moved school? Nope. Like everything I ask about it is brushed away with little concern or care.

I did all six years at my original school. The boy backed off in third year, my gran had died in the November, I was unstable and subject to just snapping at people and I actually got him into a lot of trouble during Spanish. I won’t go into detail but its safe to say I gained some respect and I kept it after that. The kid dropped out in forth year any way’s so I didn’t have to deal with him after that. But still, was it right for my mum to ignore how hurt I was at that school? I don’t think so. 

My mum also (It turns out) is a chronic liar. Two examples involve me, and they made me look like a complete idiot at the GP’s office when I finally went about my over tiredness and joint pains, and anxiety. I went about the first two issues first. So, the anxiety was in full play during this whole experience. Growing up my mum told me I had Chronic Fatigue syndrome (Which is really serious and kind of difficult to accurately diagnose) and Renaulds disease. I’ll leave you too look up what they are, but they are bad. Like severely bad. Turns out I have neither. What I do have is sever General Anxiety which I have suffered with, in silence, for nearly a decade. Does my mother care that she never noticed her very abnormally quiet child was mentally ill? Nope. 

have a question for all the teen (or older) people reading this. If you are upset about something, or you suddenly change from happy and excited to reserved and upset in a split second? If they notice do they ask about it? Do they care? Because the only time I was ever sat down by my mother for a mother-daughter talk was when I broke. You girls know the game. Bottle everything up until you can’t do it anymore. But these ‘talks’ were only available when I had done something that upset my little sister. For example, when I was a sixth year, my sister pissed me off so badly that I refused to say a single word to her for a full week. I still helped her with everything she needed, but that didn’t mean I had to talk to her. So, mum sat me down in her room, and read me the most twisted riot act, guilt trip I have ever experienced. It didn’t matter what was said, it didn’t matter that my sister had hurt me so much that I never wanted to speak to her again. No, what mattered was my sister was upset because I was ignoring her. It didn’t matter that all I wanted was an apology. I was in the wrong. It was my fault. Didn’t matter that I was suffering from my own issues, they didn’t matter. But my sister did. Instead of feeling better after talking about everything, I felt ten times worse. I went and apologised, and my sister and I made up and moved on. Turns out she isn’t as bad as I made her out to be. We just have a shit family. At this point the only ones I can stand to think about without getting angry are my little sister and my Dad. Anyways, that was how almost all of our interactions ended. My feeling guilty for having my own feelings, because how dare I feel bad about anything when everyone else had it so much worse. 

The second last thing I want to tell you about is the day of my senior prom. Now, my brother (Sister at the time) got the full prom package from my mum. She helped her pick a dress out after hours of looking, it cost around about £175. My mum did her make-up, helped her get dressed, got pictures of her in the house, the garden and the school. My little sister’s prom was much the same, the difference being my sister did her own make-up because she wanted to. She got the whole photoshoot too. Me? My mum buggered off to Room just after my eighteenth birthday and left me to do it all myself. 

Fair enough she helped my pick out my dress, which we got at the first shop we went into, for a discount, because it was the last one left and it was out of season. That’s also where I for my shoes and bag. My necklace came from Claire’s accessories. My mu paid for it, a whole £58 for dress, shoes, bag and accessories. I bought my own extensions, £60, I paid for my neighbour (A trained make-up artist) to do my brows and make up, £15, and for my hair done at the hair dressers, £30. I got ready, myself in my bedroom, did my own nails, before being drove to the school and let there. I have no photos of just me in my dress. My friend D’s mum took the pictures of me at school with D and his friends. I was the only girl out of eight of us, because I friends were getting ready at hotel we were staying in for the night. My cousin’s mum paid for everything for her. Spray tan, hair, makeup, wine, chocolates. She was treated like a princess, not having to lift a finger all day because that was her special day. To me it was like any other day except I got to dress up and look pretty. I felt down and anxious on what should have been the one of the best days of my life. My farewell to high school and childhood. Safe to say it was a let down of epic proportions. 

The last thing is the most recent. As I mentioned before I have a flat that I live in, half way across the country from where my parents live. A week ago I found out I need to be out of this flat by the start of May. I have no savings, I'm in my overdraught in my bank account and I have no money for a deposit for a new flat. I have no job, I was let go from my last on in November 2018 and so far I haven’t found a new one. 

And my mum? 

“We can’t have … back here. We don’t have the room for two flats in the house since … moved back.” 

She said this to my cousin, and flat mate, on the phone. Speaker phone. My older brother moved home two years ago. My little sister moved home recently after being kicked out of her college. And me? There isn’t any room. My dad would have me back, but not my mum. And when my uncle pulls her up about what she said she denied it and texts me asking why I told him I wasn’t allowed back. Not once has she suggested to letting me come home. Its always, we’ll find you something. It’ll be okay… yada yada yada. Same old story same old rhyme. My problems don’t matter because my siblings matter more. 

Is this a selfish way to think? I don’t think so. Am I bitter? Yes. I brought myself up, I brought my little sister up. I was a young carer since I was eight, long before my mum got too sick to do it. Tell me, if you have an able-bodied parent, a disabled child and an able-bodied child a year older than the disabled one, whose job is it to take care of the disabled child? Because I can say with certainty it should not be the eight-year-old child. As far as I’m concerned, I was an ignorant child until recently and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive my mum for all of this. It takes on person to start talking sense for you to notice the little things. To start questioning every supposedly innocent conversation, every apology and then it starts to make sense. 

My mum is the kind of person who wanted to be a parent but became one to early, or the kind who never wanted kids but ended up with them anyways and had no way out of it.   
Make your own decisions, if I have children, I won’t poison them against my mother, but I won’t tell them lies about my childhood. My mum always said she wanted us to have a better mum than she did. Well, that’s what I’ll be doing for my children when they are born. I’ll treat them the way I should have been treated. If they are sick, I’ll take them to hospital, if they get hurt, I won’t brush it off as a child lying for attention, if they beg and plead and cry genuine tears because they are suffering at their school, I will let them leave if that’s what they want. I’ll treat them right. I’ll treat them better than I was treated. I deserved better from my mother, but I didn’t get that, and I don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive that. If I were older, more independent and stable I honestly feel like I would never speak to her again. But I’m not, so for now she stays. 

I don’t ever want to lose my mum. No child ever does (Usually) but blood is all that holds her to me. I have no real emotional bond to my mother left. She’ll always be family, and I accept that that will never change, but family is the only bond we share right now.

I guess this is the end of the second part of this Essay, or what ever you want to call it. Again, I don’t want your sympathy or pity, and hell, if anyone ever wants to talk about their own problems I’m happy to listen and help if I can. No one deserves to suffer alone. I should know. I did, and I have the scar to prove it.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now. This is really a lot more difficult to write than I thought it would be.
> 
> Until next time.  
> -Scarlet


End file.
